The Waxworks Affair
by Avirra
Summary: It was a dark and stormy Halloween night. Not the ideal time for meeting with their contact. Part of the Seven Days of Halloween challenge.
1. Maids in a Row

Neither Napoleon nor Illya made the first move to get out of the car as they both looked over the dark structure before them.

"A creepy, derelict, supernatural-themed wax museum. On Halloween, nonetheless. Our contact could only have made this creepier if she'd scheduled it on Friday the thirteenth as well."

Frowning, Illya glanced over at his partner.

"It is impossible for Halloween and Friday the thirteenth to coincide, Napoleon."

Napoleon rolled his eyes.

"You are too literal for your own good, chum. Come on. The looks of this place aren't going to improve in the near future."

Glancing upward, Illya agreed.

"As it looks as if a thunderstorm is brewing, I would guess it will be even less inviting soon."

Both men exited the car, automatically checking for their weapons. Napoleon led the way, but Illya was only a few steps behind.

As their contact's note had promised, a side door was unlocked. The creaking of the hinges grated on their ears and spoke of long neglect. Napoleon sighed.

"Well, unless she's hard of hearing, she knows we're here."

Illya felt uneasy and drew his gun, noting that Napoleon was doing the same. Silently, they made their way deeper into the building, only to nearly jump out of their skins when lights suddenly flared to reveal four women seated nearby. Napoleon's heart was still beating too quickly as he moved slightly closer.

"Wax. I'm surprised neither of us shot them. What turned on the lights?"

Illya was kneeling where Napoleon had been moments before.

"You did, my friend. There is a pressure plate here in the floor that you must have stepped on. However, I have a better question."

"What's that?"

"Why is there still power in an abandoned building?"


	2. Requiem

Valid as Illya's question was, Napoleon shushed him. A moment later, he whispered.

"Do you hear that? It sounds like someone breathing."

Frowning, Illya nodded and began to move slowly toward the seated wax figures, finally coming to a stop in front of the one dressed n blue. Gingerly reaching forward, he lifted the skirt from the floor and revealed a speaker that was underneath the chair. Even now knowing the source of the sounds, he couldn't suppress a shiver when a low throaty chuckle began.

"Come on, chum. Nothing here. Let's move on."

Letting the skirt drop back down, Illya jumped as a sudden crash of thunder shook the building. He hurried to Napoleon's side, grateful that his partner was shaken enough himself not to make any disparaging comments. As soon as they reached the threshold of the next door, the lights snapped back off, plunging them into darkness again.

The new room had boards that gave way slightly and squeaked. Illya had opened his mouth to warn Napoleon to be careful when a tiny pair of eyes lit up to their left. His voice became a low hiss.

"Napoleon - to the left."

Napoleon glanced over just in time to witness a second pair of eyes joining the first. As they stood there watching, pair after pair of eyes appeared until the light from them generated enough light that they were able to begin to make out shapes. Dozens upon dozens of robed figures, all as still as death as the eyes continued to begin to glow in rapid sequence. The thin, low howl of wind began and neither man could swear whether the noise was from a speaker or if the storm was growing so bad outside that they could now hear it through the walls.

A soft, barely audible, chanting began to be heard. It was Napoleon's turn to shudder as he recognized chant as Latin. The Mass for the dead.

"Let's get out of here."

Illya agreed fully. This time when they reached the doorway, the hundreds of eyes all flashed a sickly green before winking out entirely. Then, a icy cold breath blew for only a second, but strongly enough to ruffle their hair. Shivering from the cold and more, Napoleon hesitated to go further.

"I'm not sure I want to see what's next."

"What choice do we have?"

Taking a deep breath, Napoleon gripped his gun a bit tighter.

"None."


	3. 3 Out of 4

A dim light illuminated the next room and a light fog clung here and there. The lighting was just a little stronger over the tableau at the rooms center. The scene was covered with rocks and mosses. Laid artistically atop the mosses was a woman dressed as if she had stepped off a Paris runway highlighting haute couture. Her hair was hidden by a crown of feathers accented with a medallion of beading. The heavy stone and silver necklace covering her chest also spoke of fashion though her arms and fingers were bare of any metals or gems.

Circling the tableau, Napoleon gave his thoughts free reign while Illya examined the rest of the room.

"The first two scenes were extremely creepy, but I find this one rather sad. A beautiful wax figure, but lifeless and cold. I wonder what she's meant to represent?

Turning, Illya took his own close look at the pale figure before stepping up onto the tableau.

"You have three out of four right, Napoleon."

Puzzled, Napoleon took a step nearer.

"Three out of what four right?"

Reaching down, Illya gently picked up the nearest arm which was limp in the way that a statue could never be.

"Beautiful, lifeless, and cold. But not wax. She has not been dead long. Rigor mortis has not yet set in."

Allowing the arm to fall back to the ground, Illya spotted a flash of white among the feathers and delicately pulled it free. Recognizing it, he offered it to Napoleon.

"Your card. I fear this means that she was our contact."

Napoleon took the card before looking back at the dead woman.

"I'm afraid you're right. Any signs of what killed her?"

"Nothing is obvious and this is hardly the time or place for a more thorough examination. Might I suggest a strategic retreat followed by contacting headquarters?"

"Good idea, though I think we should go ahead and make contact now."

"I already made the attempt while you were first examining the body, Napoleon. We appear to be in a - pardon the expression - dead zone."


	4. One for the Road

It wasn't easy to tell immediately, but the lights in the tableau room were slowly dying. As Napoleon toyed with his calling card, a brief flash of light caught his eye. It was gone again before he could draw Illya's attention to it.

"It only lasted for a second but I saw an exit sign light up over there."

"I doubt that was a coincidence or an accident."

"We do need to get out of here."

"I am not denying that, my friend. However, walking into a trap will not help matters."

"Right. I'll be careful."

As the sign had promised, there did prove to be a well-concealed door there. Illya held up a hand as Napoleon reached for the door.

"I do not hear the storm through that door."

"Maybe our luck is turning and the storm's played itself out?"

Even though he was the one saying the words, Napoleon didn't buy that and was even more cautious as he opened the door. What was on the other side was the last thing he expected. Pitch blackness as if in a mine, but what little he could see seemed to be a road. A road whose double yellow lines centered on the door.

Illya leaned over to take a better look.

"We must have opened the door onto another display. Why would anyone have built a road that dead ends into a door?"

Two things happened in near unison. The remaining light in the tableau room went out and a pair of headlights snapped on in the next room, blinding them. Then they heard the engine revving. As the tires squealed, Napoleon slammed the door shut as he and Illya dove to the side.

The impact shook the building, but didn't break through the wall. Still, without opening it, they knew that door was now fully blocked. Sighing, Illya felt his way back to where he remembered the doorway back to the robed figures had been. To his frustration, the door was no longer where he knew it had to have been. The soft, but heartfelt curse in Russian alerted Napoleon to the problem and he groped his way to Illya's side and searched for the door as well, to no avail.

"Going back doesn't seem to be an option now. Guess we need to find a way forward."

With no light, that was easier said than done. Napoleon pulled out his lighter.

"If we can find some trash to burn, it might give us a minute or two of light to search."

"So long as we do not burn this place down in the process. Napoleon! Look!"

Across the way, a dim reddish glow had appeared, seeming to be coming from underneath a door.

"It feels like we're being lead around by the nose, but we can't just stand here all night. Might as well see what's next in store."


	5. A Poor Gift

The two men carefully worked their way toward the faint reddish glow, one praying and the other hoping that the light would remain until they reached it. Luck was with them this time and, though it grew no stronger, the light stayed on to guide them.

It took them a few minutes to find the way to open the door, both it finally swung open, much to their relief. Stepped carefully inside, Napoleon let out a soft chuckle.

"A gift shop? We're in a gift shop?"

"So it would appear, Napoleon."

Illya moved around Napoleon gingerly, looking at the tidy shelves displaying everything from books on serial killers to glow in the dark skeletons. Napoleon moved as well, looking at what proved to be the light source - a series of translucent photographs that were lit from behind. The largest and brightest was a desert scene with the silhouette of a man standing atop a rise, looking across to where a series of fires were burning.

"Napoleon - over here."

Illya's sudden call drew Napoleon's attention and he moved to see what had caught his partner's attention. It was an unusually styled woman's handbag that had been dropped rather than placed on the floor. Illya passed the slender wallet to Napoleon as he examined the rest of the fallen contents. When Napoleon opened the wallet, the photograph on the driver's license inside confirmed that it belonged to the dead woman in the tableau room. Unfortunately, Illya saw no sign of the papers that they were supposed to have received from the woman.

"It seems that whatever happened to her happened in here, chum."

"Agreed, but beyond her purse, I see nothing else that has been disturbed here."

While the light was too dim for Illya to see exact what was moving behind Napoleon, his instincts screamed danger. Illya didn't waste time or breath before shoving Napoleon roughly to the side - seemingly at the same time, a gunshot went off. Napoleon knew he hadn't been hit himself, but cursed as Illya's body fell on him. That his partner was still breathing was a short-lived relief as the man who had shot him stepped closer.

"Not exactly to plan, but I believe we can make do with this. Good evening, Mister Solo."

The weapon appeared to be the type favored by THRUSH, but the man's voice wasn't familiar. Considering the position he was in, Napoleon's tone was surprisingly nonchalant.

"Have we met?"


	6. A Watery Fate

The man started laughing at Napoleon's question. When he spoke this time, a slight accent tinged his words. European, but Napoleon couldn't pinpoint it more precisely than that.

"No. Not officially, although I have heard far more about you from my dear Angelique than I care to have heard. I was pleased to receive this assignment. A man so rarely gets to mix business with pleasure and removing my lover's old flame from this world will be a pleasure."

Gesturing with his gun, the man stepped slightly to the side.

"I believe I will trust you more if you are occupied. Get up and pick up Kuryakin."

Napoleon's slight hesitation drew an immediate response.

"Allow me to rephrase that. Pick up Kuryakin or I will shoot him in the head and then neither of us will need to bother with him again."

Keeping himself from muttering, Napoleon moved Illya off of him as gently as he could and then lifted him. The man seemed to approve.

"Excellent, excellent. Now - start walking to the door that I came from. We'll will conclude our business there."

Seeing no other choice at the moment, Napoleon moved toward the next room. It was dimly lit as well, but the overall tones were grey instead of red. A soft moan told him that Illya was regaining consciousness and he hoped his partner would realize to remain quiet for now.

The room was another tableau - a much larger one. There was a pool of real water and wax figures showing the old witch trials of seeing if a witch would sink or float in the water. The man entered after Napoleon and then circled slightly, putting himself between Napoleon and the water.

"I've heard tales about Kuryakin. I think we should find out if he's a witch. Set him down and get the rope over there to your right. It won't be a proper test until he's bound."

Lowering Illya to the ground, Napoleon cast a glance around to look for anything that he might use to his advantage. A sharp intake of air from Illya shifted his eyes back to the wounded man, thinking he was hurting. Illya's own eyes were fixed on the water and seemed almost frightened. Napoleon looked to see what could be causing that reaction and then froze himself.

A pair of hands were extended above the water behind the man and, judging by the ripples in the water, were beginning to move toward him. Napoleon swallowed hard and, despite himself, called out a warning.

"Behind you!"

The man actually began to laugh.

"Oh come now, Mister Solo. Surely you can come up with something better than that old cliché."

It was the sound of moving water behind him that finally made the man turn. He let out a strangled scream as a head finally broke through the surface of the water. The sodden feather headpiece told Napoleon exactly who was emerging and he ducked to protectively cover Illya with his own body as the man began firing wildly.


	7. An Evening Mist

The man's screams grew shriller and Napoleon turned his back on the scene. Wincing. he placed his hands over Illya's ears to try and protect them, but he knew it was no use when the woman began to wail.

The wail pierced him with an almost physical force. It was like nothing he had ever heard before and he fervently prayed he'd never hear it again. Even with the knowledge that it wouldn't help, Napoleon closed his eyes tightly and held onto his partner.

The next sensation he felt was wetness. His mind was still foggy, but Napoleon figured that he must have passed out. When and how long ago was a mystery, but he had been unaware long enough to become thoroughly soaked.

Being soaked made him panic as he suddenly remembered that the man with the gun had intended to throw Illya into the water to drown. Finally convincing his eyes to open, Napoleon found he was sitting on the pavement of the parking lot outside of the museum, his unresponsive and equally soaking wet partner across his lap. Laying atop Illya's body was the dead woman's handbag.

A crack of thunder and hte continuing rain finished the work of bringing him to his senses. Pulling out his communicator, Napoleon was relieved to hear the familiar signal as he connected to UNCLE Headquarters.

"Open Channel D."

The voice of Alexander Waverly came over the instrument.

"Mister Solo - we are relieved to hear from you. You are four hours past your scheduled check-in."

Napoleon was speechless. Their scheduled check-in was still over an hour away when they had first entered the building. How had he lost nearly five hours?

"Mister Solo?"

Waverly's voice brought him back to the present.

"We need an extraction, sir. Illya was shot and is currently unconscious and I . . . I am not in any condition to drive."

He could still hear Waverly's voice somewhat as the Old Man turned from his microphone and began issuing rapid orders. Once that was done, he addressed Napoleon again.

"And your contact?"

"Dead, sir."

A fluttering curtain pulled Napoleon's eyes up almost against his will and he saw her standing framed by the window, her body giving off an unnatural glow. She raised a hand to him as if in farewell, then disappeared. Where she had been standing, the curtains flared and burst into flames.

Waverly called out to Napoleon three more times before the CEO finally responded again.

"The building is on fire. We're outside, but we're both soaked to the skin."

"Go shelter in your car, Mister Solo. Assistance is on the way."

Blinking the rain from his yes, Napoleon cursed himself. Of course. He might not be clear headed enough to drive, but the car would get Illya out of the rain. It took far longer than it normally would have for him to carry Illya to the car and manuever him into the back seat, but he finally managed. He remembered the emergency kit that Illya had put into the trunk and grabbed it from the trunk. The blankets and first-aid kit were placed on the passenger seat before Napoleon began to peel the clammy clothing off of his partner. There was little he could do about the bullet wound, but he covered it with a large adhesive patch b efore cocooning Illya into one of the blankets.

He had barely finished with the blanket with a flurry of help decended. Illya and Napoleon were whisked away in a nondescript van as another agent grabbed the keys to the car to drive it away from the scene before the fire trucks arrived.

* * *

The next time Napoleon woke, he was on a bed in the medical center with Mister Waverly nearby. It was puzzling at first why he was being congratulated for completing the mission but, after Mister Waverly left, April explained that the papers that the woman had been trying to pass to UNCLE had been hidden in the lining of her purse. Napoleon briefly wondered if her ghost had been the one to lave her purse on Illya's back, but he wisely kept those musings to himself.

* * *

It was a week later before the two men were released from medical, but Mister Waverly was granting them an additional week of leave to finish their recovery at home. The doctors had never been able to pinpoint what sort of drugs the agents might have been dosed with, but both still suffered from extreme lethergy - though they were showing signs of slow improvement.

On hearing that her two favorite men were both poorly, Aunt Amy insisted they stay with her until they were better. The warm, homey atmosphere and plentiful, nourishing food did wonders until, four days after taking up residence in Aunt Amy's apartment, they felt restless enough to want to get some fresh air.

Aunt Amy made sure both men were well-bundled up. It wasn't officially winter, but there was a chill in the air and the leaves were in mounds on the ground rather than on the trees. She sent them to the park across from her building, staying behind herself to tend to the rich beef stew cooking in the stove and the fresh bread baking in the oven. She didn't have to worry about them remaining out too long. Illya loved bread fresh from the oven, so they would be back before the bread was done.

Walking side by side, the two men occasionally glanced at one another, but didn't speak until there was no-one else around. Finally, Illya sighed.

"Napoleon? Do you believe the doctors are correct? That we were somehow drugged and imaged what happened that night?"

The wrought iron lamps began coming on as the evening sky darkened. Napoleon took a deep breath, then shook his head.

"No, I don't. But I think that it's best for everyone else concerned if we pretend to agree with that theory."

They walked in silence a few more feet.

"I would have liked to have known her, Napoleon. She must have been quite a woman."

"I think so too. Say, would you like to accompany me to the church? I'd like to light a candle for her."

"Do you think anyone would mind if I lit one as well?"

Smiling, Napoleon put a hand on Illya's shoulder.

"Nobody will mind."

As they headed off side by side, one of the lamps flickered briefly as a translucent hand came to rest against the pole. She didn't need to follow them any more. Closing her eyes, she tilted her face up to the sky and, when the next breeze came, she flowed away with it like a faint evening mist.

* * *

Happy Halloween, cousins.


End file.
